Prologue

Everything in this house was clean.

The kitchen had been recently mopped and wiped down to almost sparkling. The bedsheets were freshly laundered; soft, not scratchy like what he was used to. The shower was clean, his clothes were clean, the walls were clean. Everything was clean.

But Luke was dirty.

He’d been at the Pattersons’ house for a month. Hadn’t been hit or kicked by adults or the other three boys who lived here. Kids could sometimes be the most vicious, especially ones feeling like they needed to defend their territory. But not these guys.

Luke had his own room in this giant old house. He definitely hadn’t had his own room at the group home. Or on the streets when he’d run away.

And his door locked. Clinton Patterson, the guy here with his wife, had shown Luke how to use the lock.

That was all great, but Luke still put the wooden desk chair under the doorknob every night. It wouldn’t keep someone out, but it would at least warn him if someone was trying to get in.

The three other boys living here seemed okay. They were all foster kids, and all close to fourteen like Luke. Luke had seen one of them, Brax— what a stupid name— last year for a few days at Skyline Park group home, before Luke had sneaked out again as soon as possible. By the time the cops had caught him and brought him back, Brax was gone.

The other two boys were okay, too. Weston was the quiet Black kid. He hardly ever said anything, but always let Luke play video games with him. The Hispanic kid, Chance, was supersmart. Luke didn’t mind him, either.

This place was way better than Skyline Park. It was probably temporary—great foster parents like Clinton and Sheila didn’t keep kids like Luke long-term. They adopted babies or sweet blonde angels who floated into group homes for a few months and needed someone to look out for them.

At least that was one good thing Luke had done. Maybe a few months in the Patterson house was his reward for helping out the little girl.

He sat up in his bed and swung his legs over the side. He was hungry. It was late and Clinton and Sheila were old as dirt—like forty or something—and had probably gone to bed. He could sneak some stuff like he’d been doing every night.

Because if being here was a reward, he might as well take advantage of it as long as he could. There were no locks on the pantry or fridge here. There was so much, no one even noticed that Luke was stealing food.

Going to bed not hungry had been nice, he wasn’t going to lie.

He got up, still fully dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt, and moved the chair from the doorknob. He padded down the stairs but stopped when he heard Clinton’s and Sheila’s voices in the kitchen. He was about to turn around and go back to his room when he realized they were talking about him.

He sat on the stairs so he could listen. If they were going to kick him out, it was better if he knew ahead of time.

“I just don’t feel like we’re reaching him, Clint. Even Weston, with his abuse, didn’t take this long for any sort of breakthrough.”

“Give him time.” Clinton’s voice was much deeper. “He’s been alone. On the streets and in that group home. We’ll get it shut down, don’t you worry. Now that social services knows exactly what’s going on, they’ll make changes.”

Sheila gave a shuddery sigh. “I’m just glad he’s here where we can keep him safe.”

A few seconds later, Luke heard chopping.

“Nothing else bad is going to happen to him. Not while he’s in our care.” More chopping. “What are you doing?”

“I’m cutting some carrots and celery sticks.”

Clinton let out a sigh. “It’s after ten thirty at night. Why?”

The chopping resumed. “He comes in every night and gets food. I thought I’d at least make him something nutritious. These vegetables, and I made a sandwich, too. Maybe he’ll eat that. I just want him to know he can have all the food he wants.”

“I love you, Sheila Patterson.” Clinton’s chuckle was muffled, like he was saying it with his lips pressed against something. “Luke is going to love you, too. Give him time.”

The chopping stopped. “He’s been so hurt. He’s been on his own too long. He tries to carry too much. He thinks we’re going to dump him at the first opportunity. I don’t know how—”

“Hey.” He cut her off. “Luke is strong. With the right guidance and nurturing, that strength will grow and flourish. He’s a protector.”

“But he’s also just a boy. I want to hug him... I wish he would let me.”

Luke couldn’t even think of the last time an adult had hugged him. He had no idea what he would do if Sheila tried.

“He will. Someday. When he’s ready. Now put that stuff away and let’s go to bed.”

Luke climbed the rest of the way down the stairs and hid in the dining room until Clinton and Sheila left the kitchen and went up the stairs to their bedroom. Then he slowly walked into the kitchen.

He opened the fridge and grabbed the plate with the sandwich and veggie sticks.

And it was the most delicious food he’d ever eaten.